


Let Sleeping Angels Lie

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, M/M, Oil, Oil Gland Kink, Size Kink, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winged!Martin. Douglas discovers his captain's charming secret, and does his best to enjoy the secret as much as Martin. (Yes, it's porn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Sleeping Angels Lie

It's just a little past three o'clock in the morning, and in his ear Martin can clearly hear ATC directing their flights. The headphone works well, and his other ear is empty - this is just in case someone has a remote control helicopter or something similar that might stand a chance at clipping his side. Not that that happens a lot! The one event had happened when he'd been seventeen, and at a much lower altitude than this anyway.

ATC are the main worry, and he knows which ways to bank and when and where to duck, ensuring he doesn't get caught in one engine or other - so his Dad used to say, it had been easier a few generations back, before commercial planes were so much of a thing.

All the same, Martin's very glad commercial planes _do_ exist are a thing - the difference between flying like this and flying GERTI are plainly obvious, of course, but Martin adores both almost equally. GERTI wins, of course, but only by the tiniest bit. Even if she is somewhat dilapidated, she is an aeroplane, and Martin is her contented supreme commander.

He keeps an ear out, and at a command from ATC to the 737 above, banks towards the city. The radio is clipped to the inside of his jumper, and he's reasonably certain it won't drop, so he does a quick barrel roll and enjoys the sing in his ears and the wind in his hair, but he won't risk it again - getting dizzy could just as easily mean getting dead when Martin's in the air.

Bloody inner _ear._

His wings are spread wide, and the feathers, given their gingery colour, aren't particularly eye catching - he's been mistaken for an owl, before, and that's just fine so long as no journalists show up at his house screaming about angels. God knows that would be a horror story and a half.

Martin smiles to himself, looking down and enjoying the sight of what lies beneath him; Paris is absolutely lovely at night, and the lights below are so pretty, golden and red and white all spread beneath him. He's slow about making his way down, exceedingly careful not to nosedive (much as he'd love to), carefully dropping down onto the hotel roof again.

His wings fold away just as he touches down, and he reaches into the jumper, pulling down the panel at the back to hide the slats there. It had looked a little silly, initially, but once Martin had adjusted it had passed well enough as something simply fashionable; it looks like someone's just cut a smiley face with two eyes and an open mouth in a second layer of fabric on the back.

And so someone had, although the eyeholes aren't so much of a fashion statement as they are for his wings to fold out of, but for some reason Primark doesn't tend to offer a big range with that in mind.

Lord knows why.

He creeps through the fire escape and down the stairs and, very slowly and stealthily, into the hotel room.

"Where were you heading off to, then?" Martin flinches at the voice in the darkness, and he looks to Douglas' bed: the older pilot is sat up, his Kindle held loosely in his hands. "Pas un rendez vous ici, à Paris romantique?"

"No, Douglas, not- that." Martin mutters, cheeks flushing slightly - he's glad of the darkness so that Douglas can't see it and crow that Martin is lying. He'd understood "rendez vous", "Paris" and "romantic", and he'd been enjoying only one of those ideas. God knows the French have too high standards for any of them to consider going on a date with Martin Crieff. "Just went out for some air, that's all."

"The air on the balcony wasn't good enough for you?" Damn it. Martin had forgotten the balcony.

"Oh, _fine_ , I went out and had a croissant at that late night café down the road, alright? I was hungry." Martin snaps, and he wishes Douglas wasn't so clever (cleverer than Martin) so that he wouldn't ask so many questions. Next time, he may well just insist on sharing a room with Arthur instead.

Not that he doesn't _like_ sharing with Douglas – the wake-up calls are usually deceptively gentle, and Martin does occasionally see Douglas shirtless. _Ahem_. Not that he enjoys that.

"Ah, a croissant. Nice out, is it?" Douglas' voice is teasing, as if he knows something. God knows Martin hates it when the man knows things.

"Yes, it's lovely. Very temperate." Martin replies, subtly setting his radio aside and kicking off his shoes and his trousers before pulling his jumper over his head. He won't see Martin's wings, carefully folded against his back, because Martin faces away, and when he slides into bed he pulls the sheets right over his head.

"Seemed a bit cool to me, given the altitude."

"Altitude? Paris isn't that high up." Martin says, putting his head to the pillow and closing his eyes.

"For you, Martin, not for Paris." He freezes, and he looks over at Douglas, his mouth open, his expression utterly terrified. Douglas just grins at him, the light from his Kindle keeping his irritating face lit up. Oh, God. Oh, God.

"Wh- I don't know, what it it is- dunno what you mean." Martin says. "I-" Douglas holds up an auburn feather. "Oh, _shit_. Please, Douglas, please, you can't tell- shit, how did you...? _**Fuck**_ -"

"Such _language_ , Martin. I've never heard you curse like that before. You sound a true sailor." Douglas leans from his bed across the gap, holding it out - it's a flight feather, one that would have moulted off him a little while ago, and Martin snatches it from him. "And ooh, two months, now? Is that why you always wear a radio? ATC?"

"Christ, how- are you? I mean, are you-" He must be. He can't just have _figured it out_ , because Martin is so very careful.

"Am I...?"

"Well, do you have wings too?" Martin sits up in bed, and his wings spread out from his body slightly, curling just a little around his shoulders. Douglas looks utterly awed for a moment, and yes, that's slightly satisfying, definitely - Douglas with his mouth open, his expression impressed, reverent, even.

Douglas even looks _attractive_ , like that – Martin can imagine him under Martin as he thrusts himself- _no._

But, anyway, the expression is just as much an answer as the words that come next.

"No, Martin, no, I- Christ, those are beautiful up close." Martin flicks on the bedside light, and he regards Douglas in silence for a few moments. He trusts Douglas, God knows he trusts Douglas, but as he's come to know his first officer is most definitely a profiteer of sorts. A _profiteer_ , and Martin is-

Well.

Martin is a freak. And it would be easy to profit from him.

It was from his Dad's side of the family. His sister hadn't got the gene - God knows that's one reason for her to hate him, but Simon had it. His wings, of course, are far nicer than Martin's, all gold and shimmering, and he has a much bigger wingspan than Martin himself.

Martin is jealous, of course, but not by a terrible amount. It's a fact of life, at this point, that Simon does better than him in any matter that might come up.

They'd always been pressured carefully, not to ever reveal it unless you were absolutely _certain_ , and yet- Ugh.

"I'm not going to sell you out, Martin. Your secret is quite safe with me." Douglas says, as if he'd seen Martin's internal dilemma, and Martin gives a slow, very careful nod. He's not sure if that word is to be completely trusted, but Douglas has never ever tried to hurt him, so...

It's too late to try and do anything about it now, anyway. Douglas knows, so he knows. Martin can't change that. It's not like he's got magic _powers._

"Can I ask- how?" Martin's never heard Douglas sound so fascinated, never heard him sound so admiring.

"Just born this way. It's- It's, um, definitely pretty secret." Martin murmurs, and he rubs carefully at the back of his neck. Slowly, he makes his way closer, settling on the edge of the other man's twin bed and spreading his wings slightly. "You can- I mean, not hard, or rough, but if you like you can touch."

Martin has imagined this. Martin has imagined this a thousand times, showing Douglas his wings and Douglas being revolted, or angry, or furious, or violent. Douglas isn't any of those things, right now. In fact, he looks like the light of God has just shone on his face.

Not like the best of Martin's fantasies, though – not like Douglas fucking him, throwing him against the wall and dragging at his feathers and making him _scream._

His first officer reaches out very slowly, and carefully he drags his fingers through the thick underdown of Martin's left wing, feeling the soft plumage under his hand. It feels nice. God, it feels nice - only Martin's family have ever touched his wings before, but somehow Douglas touching them is just a little different. A little more important.

"God, Martin, why are you a pilot when you can take to the air with these?" Douglas asks softly, and he continues to comb through the thick, gingery down, expression tender.

"Well, I- I've wanted to be a pilot since I was a kid, Douglas."

"Martin, did it not occur to you that you had _wings_?"

"Yes, but- well, aeroplanes have engines, Douglas, and they're big and fast and you're carrying people, and they're exciting and public and you don't have to hide, and everything about flying by plane is wonderful, Douglas, everything!" Martin says, and Douglas chuckles just a little. "How did you find out?"

"It was when we were in Copenhagen. You crept out through the front door when we were in that little villa thing. I saw a glimpse of your wings as you spread them, but other times I've found feathers. It was only tonight I followed you ought onto the roof. Seeing you take off- Lord, Martin, I've never seen something so incredible in my life. God."

Douglas keeps stroking through the feathers, and one falls out. Douglas looks horrified for a second, but Martin mumbles, "Uh, sorry, I do- I moult."

"Like a _parrot_?" Douglas all but crows the words, though quietly enough.

"No! No, not like a parrot, Douglas, like a me. It's completely normal, especially given, that I, er..." Martin begins to mumble, and it's utterly incomprehensible by design.

"Pardon?" Oh, for once, Martin wishes the other man would let him get away with something, but it seems like Douglas has no intention at all of doing that - as usual.

"I don't groom them properly. You're meant to coat your hands in the oil," Douglas raises an eyebrow. Oh, but of course - what is Douglas going to know about oil glands? "And comb through the feathers, and take out the dead ones. But I just, you know, leave them. Let them fall out. It's really hard to groom your own wings, you know. They're flexible, but only by so much." Douglas' brow furrows, and he looks at the slight spread of the wings. Martin can almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain.

"No?" He queries, and he smirks a little. "Well, I've given you haircuts, Martin-" He flushes slightly at the mention of that - four times now Douglas has cut his hair for him, and Douglas is actually pretty good at it. He'd probably spent a summer in a hairdresser's and mastered the profession or something - Douglas is the type for that. "I'm certain I could handle grooming these."

Martin swallows.

"Uh- uh- uh-" Douglas' brow furrows again, and he looks a little confused.

"Oh, Martin, don't worry, I'd never force-"

"N-no, no, it's just- it's not even a family thing, because it's- the glands, and the main feathers - it feels really, really good, you see, so it's not for strangers- I mean- not that _we're_ strangers, but-"

"Is it a sex thing?" Martin squeaks.

And then he nods his head.

"Ah. I understand. Well, what a shame." Douglas murmurs in response to Martin's particularly undignified noise. "And we're not going to have sex, of course." Of course: Douglas would never have sex with him in a million years. "No push, Martin, but sex with you would never be a chore for me, if you ever do change your mind."

Douglas' hand is still in his feathers. Martin squeaks again. _What?_

"I- I- you would-" Another high pitched noise. He really does sound like a bird. "But I'm- but you're-"

"Quite right - hotel in foreign land." Douglas says cleanly, as if Martin hadn't been about to spout some desperate, flustered nonsense. "We could always have sex at home, though. If you would like to. And I could groom your wings."

Martin stares at him. Douglas has never- it's because of the wings. He's exotic, now, and Douglas-

"It's not the wings, Martin. You're quite an attractive young man."

"Can you read minds?" Douglas snorts.

"The wings are just the cherry on top. Unless- that is, unless you _ _are__ the cher-?"

"I'm not a cherry!" Martin says loudly, and then he flushes red, his wings curling around his body as if to hide his embarrassment. "I mean, no, I don't _have_ a ch- no, I'm not a virgin." Martin bites his lip, still thinking, a little uncertain.

"Very eloquent." Comes the expected comment, and Martin huffs at him.

"Shut up."

"Shut me up." Douglas says, and Martin tilts his head, momentarily perplexed, but then Douglas leans up and presses his lips to Martin's, and Martin lets out a soft moan against the other's mouth; behind him, his wings flutter.

“Hotel in a foreign land sounds fine to me.” Martin mumbles when Douglas finally pulls back, and the first officer chuckles but complies. Martin is soon cross-legged in front of him, and Douglas is combing through the feathers. It's cursory: it's not quite the main event, but it feels _good_ and Martin relaxes into it, letting out soft, quiet sighs.

“Now, the oil, where is it?” Douglas asks, and he speaks quietly, pensively – this is the tone Douglas takes on when he's concentrated and attempting to learn, Martin's found.

“The glands, there are four on each side of the wing roots. Where they adjoin the- _aah_ -” Martin lets out a low cry as Douglas' thumb brushes over the first outside gland of his right wing. They're swollen for lack of being used, and it feels _great._ It feels _perfect,_ and Martin can feel the oil flow rapidly over Douglas' hand.

His cock is suddenly paying a _lot_ of attention, and he can feel twinges of interest there, and when he glances in the mirror at the side of the room, he can see Douglas' furrowed brow. He's concentrating obviously as he carefully rubs his thumb over the swollen gland, drawing out the oil that tingles on Martin's back.

“Can I- if I squeeze, will it hurt?”

“No, no.” Martin says in a choked voice. “S'fine.” And then Douglas puts his finger and thumb either size of the nub and Martin lets out a drawn-out wail. It sends electric shocks up his back,and the oil Douglas lathers on his hands and begins to comb through his wings.

He drags with his nails on the flesh beneath, and matted pieces come away, lubricated by his own oil.

“It's like dandruff.” Douglas murmurs thoughtfully as parts of the skin flake with the wings, and Martin thinks it's a little bit disgusting, and he's _embarrassed_ that he's allowed his body to get in such a state, but Douglas doesn't seem to mind. Douglas, in fact, is- is really good at this.

But then, Martin hadn't really expected otherwise.

Martin's cock is leaking a little by the time Douglas is satisfied that he's finished, and he watches Douglas in a sex-hazed blur as Douglas subtly pushes the dead feathers into a bin. “I'll burn these before I go.”

“Bu-burn...?”

“Well, how do _you_ want to explain it, Martin?”

“Oh. Yes. Fair point.” Martin mumbles, and then he grasps Douglas by the front of his pyjamas and pulls him close, leaning up to kiss him hard. “You said you'd fuck me, and now I want you to. _Now._ ”

Douglas makes a quiet, amused “tchook” of noise. “ _Testy_ , are we?”

“ _Douglas,_ take off your clothe _s_ -”

“Hush, hush, I know. On your hands and knees, Martin.” The bed feels good beneath his knees, better under his spread palms, and when Douglas is finally naked and presses lubed fingers to begin prepping him, Martin's wings _quiver_. He wants, he wants, and he's not had sex in _too_ long, and by the time Douglas is lined up against him, safely wrapped in a condom from Douglas' magic pockets, Martin feels he might be _melting._

And Douglas isn't gentle.

He grabs and pulls at Martin's wings, thrusting into him hard and fast, and Martin lets out soft, desperate noises, dropping from his hands to his forearms instead. “Dou- _Doug-”_

Without warning Douglas drags Martin up by his underarms, pulling Martin into his lap so that Martin's wings are spread and pressed against Douglas' chest, and the older pilot lifts and drops him with as much ease as if he were a rag doll, and Martin is left gasping, grasping at the other man with quiet cries.

“ _Christ,_ Martin.” Douglas whispers against his neck, and Martin tries to say something but all that comes out of his mouth is a mewl of pleasured sound.

He's soaked in sweat, his wings are flapping, and then Douglas presses down on an oil gland with one thumb as his other hand wraps around Martin's cock, and Martin has to bite down _hard_ on his own wrist to keep from screaming.

When Martin comes he goes limp against Douglas, because he's _exhausted_ , tired, and Douglas keeps fucking him, fucking with a rhythm that makes Martin let out low, soft noises. Afterwards, Douglas ties the condom, throws it aside, and Martin falls against his chest, his wings spread in the most bizarre blanket Douglas has ever experienced, he imagines.

“What- what time...?” Orgasms have always had a rather soporific effect on Martin, and he is so _very_ tired. His thighs ache, his back aches, everything _aches_ but everything smells spectacularly of sex.

“Don't worry about that, Martin. You've not to get up for a while yet. Go to sleep.”

“'M sleepin'.” Martin returns against Douglas' chest.

“Ah, yes. Let sleeping angels lie.” Douglas teases, and Martin groans.

“Shut _up._ You go to sleep as well.”

“Your wish is my command.”


End file.
